


Face to Face

by geekmama



Series: Time of the Season [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 12:47:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10944816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: On the drive from Musgrave back to London, Sherlock considers John's advice -- and Moriarty's.__________________For the 'First I Love You' prompt for May 19th of Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017





	Face to Face

**Author's Note:**

> Also for the ‘She’ prompt.
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Eurus was safely on her way back to Sherrinford in a high security vehicle; a shaken but uninjured Mycroft was going to be looked after, per his brother’s request to _Greg_ (the use of Lestrade’s proper first name just one more shock to add to the mountain of them, though certainly that was a happier one than most); and John had finally stopped shivering under the blanket they’d given him, now that he and Sherlock were in the warm and comfortable back seat of a government-owned car, headed away from the trainwreck that was Musgrave. 

“God, it’ll be bloody _amazing_ to be home again with Rosie!” John blurted, then instantly remembered and turned quickly to Sherlock. “But you’re _homeless!_ Are you going to stay with us while they fix up 221B?” 

“No. I mean… it’s kind of you to offer, John, but…I’m not sure… ” 

John stared, for a moment confused at his friend’s uncertainty. The light was dim in the back seat of the car, and Sherlock’s expression almost unreadable, but there was something in his tone, and in the way he held himself that brought back to John the one time during this whole ordeal that the man had actually lost it completely. “It’s Molly. You’re going to go see her?” 

Sherlock stared out at the pre-dawn landscape rushing past. He was silent for a bit, and then, when he spoke, his voice wasn’t entirely steady. “I have to explain to her…” His voice trailed off: not quite despair, but pretty close. 

“ _And_ get those cameras out of her house,” John reminded him. 

“Yes.” The word was clipped and Sherlock seemed to stiffen, furious on Molly’s behalf. But then the hopelessness set in again. 

 _Oh, Lord_. John said, rather gently, “She’ll forgive you. She loves you, Sherlock. Always has!” 

Sherlock turned to look at him again, his face a pale oval. “She might very well forgive me the phone call -- God knows that’s only the latest instance of abuse I’ve flung at her. But it’s the larger picture I’m concerned about, and that she soon will be. The one where she’s _not safe --_ and never has been. Because of me.” 

They were both silent for a bit, each considering the truth of those words. 

But finally, John frowned. “She wasn’t one of Moriarty’s targets. He didn’t know.” 

Sherlock shrugged a bit, but nodded, too. “Yes. It’s only since my return to London, I suppose. Her role in my… my _death…_  was obvious enough to anyone interested in putting two and two together. But the press didn’t run with it, and I became lax. Thought I could… _use_ her again. Invade her space with impunity.” 

“Your favorite bolthole. How long had that been going on?” 

“Well… years. But I rarely stayed. Not until Lazarus. I needed a few days to recover--” 

“Were you _hurt?_ ” John, in his anger over that whole business, had never asked, and now felt a sudden twinge of guilt. 

“There were some physical effects, but it was mostly… well. It was difficult, realizing the extent of… what I’d done. To you and… everyone. That I’d actually been…” 

“Loved?” 

“Yes.” He gave a derisive sniff and quoted himself: “ _The grit on the lens_.” 

“ _The fly in the ointment_.” John smiled, but mirthlessly. 

“Exactly,” Sherlock agreed. “I stayed with Molly until I was ready to begin the work of dismantling Moriarty’s organization. And then, when I returned, I picked up where I’d left off. Not immediately, but fairly quickly.”’ His eyes glinted. “She was still engaged, of course.” 

John tried not to laugh. “You bloody scotched that on purpose.” 

Sherlock cocked his head. “I suppose I did. Though I didn’t think of it in quite those terms at the time. But for God’s sake, you saw him, John!. It was doomed before it began.” 

John smiled crookedly at Sherlock’s indignation. He decided to go easy on him, refraining from any mention of dogs in mangers, and only said in wonder, “You’ve loved her for ages, haven’t you? And I was so fixated on Irene Adler that I couldn’t see it at all.” 

“Irene Adler is… more like a puzzle to be solved. A case.” 

“I can see that. A ten, I suppose.” 

“An eight. Maybe a nine. She’s fairly transparent.” 

“To you, maybe. And what about the texting?” 

“It’s just part of the game. She gets bored, just as I do.” 

“I see. And Molly? That’s not a game.” 

“God no!” Sherlock hesitated, then said, with a frown in his voice, “I don’t know when it started, or even how, really. And if not for my sister, I might never have put a name to it.” 

“Eurus and her vivisection. How did she know Molly would make you say it first?” 

“She can’t have known,” Sherlock said, firmly. “That was just icing on her elaborately constructed cake. The words on that coffin were more than enough.” 

He sounded so grim and stricken at that memory, that John said, “Well, that’s it, then. You can’t unsay it -- though I suppose you could pretend it was a game, explain it away in that context--” 

“No. I can’t lie to her. Not anymore.” 

“No,” John agreed. “I don’t think you can. To her or to yourself. Not after what we’ve all been through in the last twenty-four hours. And not after Mary.” 

Sherlock looked up at him, quickly. 

But John only said, “You _chose_ Molly, just as I _chose_ Mary -- your words, if you’ll recall. And of course, I’ve already told you, that chance doesn’t last forever.” He gave a short laugh. “I thought I was talking about Irene when I said that, but I can see it, now: you _chose_ Molly Hooper. And she chose you, a long time ago -- and with her eyes wide open.” 

Sherlock was staring at him. “I can’t… protect her.” 

“No, you can’t. You do the best you can, within reason, but you’re only human, Sherlock, just like the rest of us. You might fail, but it’s the trying that counts -- and the love that’s behind it. You know bloody well you can’t put life on hold for fear of death.” 

They were silent then, for a time, each of them absorbed in his own thoughts. John suddenly felt overwhelmed with memories, regret, pain, love. Mary smiled at him, loving him in spite of everything, her blue eyes bright with hard won wisdom, and courage. And tears. 

Sherlock finally said, meditatively, “I’ve lived in fear all my life. It was Jim Moriarty who pointed that out.” 

“ _What?_ ” John frowned, abruptly shaken from his own melancholy. 

“Well, his ghost, or whatever it was. When I was shot and still unconscious. I asked him why he never felt pain.” 

“Good God. And what did he say?” John asked, fascinated. 

“He said you always feel it, but you don’t have to fear it. That it was all good. Pain. Heartbreak. Loss.” Sherlock looked at John again. “Shows you’re alive, at least.” 

John gave a sour little bark of laughter. “ _That’s_ the truth.” 

Sherlock slid wearily down the leather seat. Looking up at the ceiling, he said, “I always thought of love as something _childish_ , but now… it seems to be the only reasonable response.” 

“You’re growing up, mate,” John said, not without sympathy. 

He could see that Sherlock was giving a tired smile as he murmured, “Time to put away childish things?” 

John nodded. “ _Soldiers_.” 

Sherlock raised a brow. “It seems an odd label in this particular context.” 

But John shook his head, and there was Mary, smiling at him again. He said softly, “No. For better or worse, it’s the very heart of the matter.”

 

~.~

 


End file.
